


Postcards

by okapi



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: 10 Plagues, Apologetic Sherlock Holmes, Dirty Talk, Epistolary, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Fluff and Smut, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-09
Updated: 2017-06-25
Packaged: 2018-11-12 04:04:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 10,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11153862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/okapi/pseuds/okapi
Summary: After a series of domestic calamities, Watson & Mrs. Hudson flee on holiday. Holmes writes postcards to Watson. Fluffy smut.





	1. Water as Blood

**Author's Note:**

> Mrs. Hudson describes the events in my ficlet [Plagues](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7644895/chapters/24813138).

“Only Holmes,” I muttered to myself as I turned the card over, “would be so confounding as to send _me_ a postcard whilst I’m on holiday! I’m supposed to be writing _him_ , turning him an unflattering shade of olive-green with my poetry about the weather and the views. And, what’s more, he has the bold cheek to write his message in code without providing a single clue as to the key!”

The card itself was of commercial origin, printed on one side with a picture of a fine-looking teapot and matching cups, saucers, and related accoutrement. The other side of the card was decorated with what could only, unimaginatively, I’ll admit, be described as an array of dots.

“Not even proper letters! Hieroglyphics? Cuneiform? Dancing men?” I squinted. “More like dancing ants!”

I sighed as I dropped the card on the desk, addressing my next words to the deep blue sea just outside my cabin door.

“Were we too harsh? Perhaps. Angry words. Hasty departure. But it wasn’t to be borne any longer! Flight was the only sane response. Ten domestic calamities in a fortnight, each as horrendous as its predecessor, and Holmes at the centre of them all! How Mrs. Hudson and I suffered! What we endured, day after day! A Mediterranean holiday with side excursion to Egypt seemed not only appropriate, but necessary. Crisp, clean air. Change of scenery. The ease of knowing your tea and toast won’t be disturbed by any fresh horror.”

I sighed again.

“But there’s no denying I miss him. And what to do about these ants? I’ll borrow a lens and have a closer look. No, wait, I have one.”

I’d been using the magnifying lens as a place-marker as I made my way through the first volume of William Clark Russell’s excellent  _The Wreck of the Grosvenor_. But when I unfurled the glass, which was attached to its flat leather case-handle by a hinge, a tiny scrap of paper fluttered to the floor.

“Page 274” I read in a spindly hand that was as known to me as my own.

“Oh, Holmes, you blighter,” I swore.

I found the page and discovered the entire text had been removed with surgical precision and replaced with what could only be the key to Holmes’s scratching.

“Well, I’m equal parts curious and vexed, which is wholly unsurprising given the author. But the Case of the Dancing Ants shall have to wait, I must escort Mrs. Hudson to dinner, but,” I gave what I’d like to think was a fond glance to the postcard, “then I'll devote the remainder of the evening to the decryption of the message.”

* * *

_My dearest Watson,_

_I trust dinner was enjoyable and the mystery of my missive sufficiently tempting to forgo that second glass of port._

“My dear man, a century ago, you would’ve certainly been burnt at the stake for witchcraft,” I said, shaking my head.

_I apologise for the events which provoked your exodus. A hazard of my profession and interests, the walls of 221b often bear witness to the unusual and grotesque. Any of the recent incidents might not, in and of itself, have been remarkable, but the ten, when viewed as a whole, would, I’ll concede, disturb the most stalwart of souls. And you and Mrs. Hudson must surely count among the latter._

_I am keeping my promise, dedicating my energies to the restoration of our living quarters as well as reparations for damages inflicted._

_The first, naturally, concerns the teapot. I ought to have been more vigilant about the safeguarding of the sample of_ radix sanguinis _sent by Doctor Sterndale. Understandable that Bessie put it amongst the tea things and that, given her volatile relations with the son of the green-grocer, the error wasn’t noticed until the pouring thereof. The set featured on the opposite side of this card awaits Mrs. Hudson and you upon your return._

_Water (or tea) may turn to blood, but my blood has turned to water without you. There’s nothing to thicken it, warm it, quicken its beat, and yet I remain yours. Your beloved._

Ah, in the last lines I found the motive for the secrecy. I set the lens aside and rubbed my eyes, pinching the bridge of my nose between finger and thumb.

“…and there was blood throughout all the land of Egypt,” I said, quoting the book of Exodus. “The first plague.”

I knew that Holmes had received a box of herbs from Doctor Sterndale, specimens that the explorer had collected during his travels through Africa. I did not suspect that one of these herbs had accidentally made its way to our breakfast table.

Blood tea.

I was disturbed at the sight of it pouring out, thick and ruddy, into my white porcelain teacup, but not half as disturbed as I might have been, had I realised that it was only a harbinger of disturbing events to come.

I huffed and crossed my arms over my chest and looked sternly at the postcard. No doubt Mrs. Hudson would be pleased about the new tea set, but for me, a few bits of painted ceramic, no matter how handsome, could not possibly erase the memories of all that had transpired. I still bore silent scars and vowed that I would not be moved by a line or two of poetry, no matter how heartfelt.

I extinguished the candle with a puff of cold breath and went to bed.

* * *

Oh, how the wee, small hours vanquish the resolution of dawn! I woke at four o’ clock in the morning, London morning, that is, with need bordering on ache.

Oh, how I missed him!

I had no patience for the dancing ants, but simply drew out a single sheet of paper provided by the touring company and upon it poured out if not my heart precisely, then certainly a quite a bit of my nether regions.

_My beautiful, beastly, irksome, irresistible man,_

_Blood. Water. The words recall the night before our nightmare began, when you coaxed briny waters from all the apertures of my body. And I am prepared to swear that, on that occasion, every drop of my blood had settled in my prick. Your slow, tight strokes kept me on the edge of release, and I watched, like cobra to the flute, as your slicked fist slid up and down, watched as my cockhead and swollen half-shaft burst forth, then retreated into your curled hand. I obeyed, like the good soldier I once was, not touching myself or you. Every moment was a struggle to not spend myself. I wept with pleasure and at your mastery. My sweat tickled as it dripped. I spoke your name a thousand times in a thousand ways, but all were pleas: ‘please, let me come.’ My cockhead began to weep itself, and you teased me further with whispered desires to drink from my fountain. You called me ‘good’ and I cried and trembled, knowing the end was near._ “…and that there may be blood throughout all the land of Egypt, both in vessels of wood, and in vessels of stone.” _And in my release, I was wood, I was stone, cracking, spilling your water made blood. Always, your beloved._

I folded the sheet and placed it in the envelope, then sealed and addressed the envelope and left it on the desk.

And as in dream, I returned to bed to promptly forget about the whole affair until late morning.

* * *

“You’ve post, Docteur?” asked the steward, nodding at the envelope.

“No, I don’t think so—.” I stared, then sighed and shrugged and finally said quickly, “Yes, thank you.”

Holmes’s reply came not in the form of a postcard of dancing ants, but rather a telegraph of only four words.

**I AM SMOTE. STOP.**


	2. Frogs

A second postcard of dancing ants arrived the day after the telegram. It was of the Thames. Well, it purported to be of the Thames, but the rendering was so lovely, so charming and artistic that it bore little resemblance to the dark, cold, putrid, muck of a serpentine monster with which I was familiar.

Nevertheless, the picture inspired in me a bit of longing for home. The homesickness was short-lived, however, as the first five words of the message, once decoded, slayed any softer sentiment and returned my mind at once to the river’s fouler properties.

The frogs.

The _bloody_ frogs!

Spitefully—yes, I am brimming with spite on occasion, don’t let anyone convince you otherwise—I locked the whole bundle, notes, key, and postcard, in a trunk and went for a swift promenade upon deck. I returned to the task of decryption an hour later, my lungs filled, my resolve fortified, with the bracing, chilled air of the sea at night.

_My dear Watson,_

_The frogs. What can I say about the frogs? The blood tea may have been largely due to chance and misfortune, but I alone bear responsibility for the disaster of frogs. Well, I and Mister James Phillimore, whose disappearance distracted me from my duties towards my amphibious subjects. But isn’t it a wonder that metamorphosis of those creatures can occur in a mere twenty-four hours?_

“No, it is not,” I said firmly. I stood and poured myself a small glass of water at the very thought of the frogs, their sudden transformation and escape, and their invasion of the sitting room.

_I should not have kept them hidden in basins in my bedroom._

“There was more than one basin!” I cried and gulped the tonic, slamming the glass down with such force that its contents sloshed upon the desk. “Of course, there was.”

_I should have made you and Mrs. Hudson aware their existence and their numbers. But whereas the plague frogs of Exodus were brought forth into thy bedchamber and thy kneadingtroughs, I purposefully kept my frogs in_ my _bedchamber. I avoided keeping them where it would, admittedly, have been most convenient to keep them, that is…_

“The bath.”

_…the bath. I have not forgot how, after an unfortunate encounter with some blackguards left me mildly injured, you afforded me some assistance with my bath. And I hope I was not too laconic expressing my appreciation for your aide on that occasion._

I chuckled. “You are cheek incarnate, Holmes.”

_I realised that the presence of the frogspawn might have been a deterrent to future offers of help. I am sorry, my dear man. The frogs are gone. They shall never return, but I hope you will. Until then, I remain, your beloved._

The sea outside my cabin was calm, but inside me, a storm raged.

The bath! The frogs!

Finally, calmer winds prevailed and I took up my pen and one of a pair of blank postcards proffered by the touring company. I set my reply in the form of dancing ants.

It was slow going at first, I’ll admit, but it got easier with time.

_Dearest,_

_The bruises were already showing. One of your ribs was cracked. My only consolation was that we’d inflicted worse damage on the ruffians who’d set upon us. The only sound was the rippling of my hand and the sponge as they moved together through the warm water. I put my mouth to your shoulder, licking, kissing, biting at the delicious wet skin. I washed the night’s foul stain off you, attempting to ease your discomfort, which was only to crescendo as the flush of triumph waned. Rivulets trickle down your torso; I chased them with my tongue. My name echoed off the walls in that pained, hoarse tone of yours that, frankly, would make the most dedicated physician forget oath in favour of selfish need. Dear God, how I desired to mount you, take you, make you wince, cry out._

_But I didn’t._

_Instead I brought you to what I hope was a gentle but nevertheless satisfying crisis there in the water. By the time you were dried, dressed, and tucked into your bed, I’d convinced you to take some laudanum, but when I returned with the bitter tincture you were already in Queen Mab’s grasp. Did you hear all the things I said, things too fragile to be spoke any hour but that one?_

_But, Holmes, frogs!_

_Your beloved._

Mrs. Hudson and I were engaged in a spirited game of whist when Holmes’s telegram was delivered. My skin warmed as I read.

**I AM BROUGHT FORTH ABUNDANTLY. STOP.**

“Doctor?”

“Holmes is apologising for the frogs,” I said with a cough.

She harrumphed.

I gave a nod, tucked the telegram away, and took up my cards.


	3. Lice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holmes' verse is a parody of _The Flea_ by John Donne.

I was surprised that only two days passed before the next postcard arrived. Frogs might, with extraordinary imagination, be excused or, and here I hope that my doubt is showing, rendered romantic, but there is nothing, nothing, nothing laudable or poetic about lice.

Lice!

They are not as easily caught or swept aside as frogs and by their very blood-sucking, itch-spreading nature, will not be ignored.

How did the lice arrive at 221b, you ask?

With the zebra, of course.

* * *

“Sir Henry Baskerville is quite recovered from his ordeal,” said Holmes as the crate was set in the middle of the sitting room. “I suppose,” he added when the delivery men had departed, coins in hand, “that it has something to do with being on a round-the-world journey whilst under the direct care of the attentive and sensitive Doctor Mortimer. I can attest to the ‘mysterious ways, his wonders to perform, etcetera’ of the latter, that is, of the daily devotions of a sensible and concerned medical man.”

He smirked. I smirked. We set to prying the lid off the crate.

“Ah, they’ve reached the eastern portion of the African continent,” said Holmes as we peered into the box.

He lifted the black-and-white pelt.

“Zebra!” I cried.

“No doubt a token of gratitude for clearing up that business with the hound,” said Holmes as he looked about the room. “Well, what shall we do with this, Watson? On a wall? Before the fire?”

“Holmes, the younger John Watson would’ve been quite enamoured of such a gift, but the older, softer Watson can’t but be sorrowed. This skin ought to be have been left on the magnificent beast upon whom Providence originally bestowed it. To be honest, I shouldn’t appreciate being reminded of the animal’s fate day after day.”

Holmes sighed. “You make a fine point, but we can hardly return it to its owner now. And in its selection, Sir Henry may very well have been remembering your warm appreciation for the bear hearthrug that he brought from Canada to Baskerville Hall.”

“Quite possibly, though my own enthusiasm was prompted by, uh, thoughts of an exceedingly personal nature. The, uh, wonders that might performed upon such a rug, to borrow, and butcher, a phrase.”

“So tactile creature is my doctor,” whispered Holmes in one of his several bedroom voices. He dropped the zebra skin back in the crate and stood and when he spoke, his voice was its usual drawing room timbre.

“The Royal Society might appreciate it,” he mused as he paced and scratched the top of one hand with the nails of the other.

Scratched.

Such a simple, ordinary, idle gesture, little did I realise at the time, it was not idle at all, but rather an ominous portend of ugly things rapidly to come.

* * *

The postcard arrived in a sturdy envelope, which when slit open, revealed not only the card itself, proudly displaying the Tower Bridge on one side, but also a small square of carpet.

As if it were a still-smoldering cinder, I dropped the square on the desk and scratched beneath my collar.

_Dear Watson,_

_You may remember in my absence—_

Ah, so ‘absence’ was the term that Holmes was currently using. Much politer, or perhaps not, depending on your view, than ‘the three years when I was pretending to be dead.’

_—I spent time in Lhasa. I’ve engaged a cadre of skilled weavers to produce a rug in the Tibetan style and of Tibetan wool, a soft, yet resilient fibre with which I find myself quite fascinated for scientific as well as aesthetic reasons. And I’ve impressed upon these astute artists and deft craftspeople the qualities desired, which will be represented in the design and colours. It will be something to behold, far different from the busy floral monstrosities ubiquitous these days, which hold as much appeal as, well, a house full of louse. Sample enclosed._

I took up the square and rubbed it between my finger and thumb. It was soft, yet strong. I went so far as to brush it across my cheek.

Oh.

The deep red colour did appeal. The texture even more.

Yes, it might do quite nicely.

Not a bear nor a zebra nor any other animal sacrificed on the altar of man’s greed and violent folly.

I went back to the card and continued the decryption.

_It will be in place upon your return and if beautiful and assuredly six-legged-interloper-free carpet be not sufficient proof of my regret, then perhaps a bit of verse may serve as evidence and recompense. The structure is borrowed._

> _MARK but this louse, and mark in this,_
> 
> _How little that my Watson deniest me is;_

“Oh, good Lord, Holmes,” I groaned.

> _It suck'd me first, and now sucks thoust,_
> 
> _And in this louse our two bloods are housest,_
> 
> _Thou know'st that this cannot be said_
> 
> _No sin, nor shame, nor loss of Watsonhead;_
> 
> _Yet prick enjoys as we do woo,_
> 
> _And pamper'd swells as if with blood of two;_
> 
> _And more, egad! much more we do, we do._

_And know that I remain your beloved._

“Oh, Holmes, you utter cock,” I said as I reached for the second of the touring company postcards.

_Listen, you blood-crazed insect,_

_You are a louse. You are a maddening creature who invades my most tender of spots and sinks his claws into me and sucks and feeds and will not leave. You are attached to my head, my chest, my groin, my thoughts, my feeling, my need. You are an itch that I scratch and scratch but cannot rid myself of. It only grows. I only grow madder with want of you._

_In Dartmoor, I dreamt of throwing you, body-stripped and prick-sobbing, down upon that bearskin, right in the centre of Baskerville Hall, tying your wrists and ankles to chair-legs, and having my slow, wicked way with you. I dreamt of making a horrid mess of that lovely dark fur and your lovely dark fur with sticky, sordid emissions. I dreamt of nuzzling beneath your arms, burrowing in the creases of your thighs, biting you. I dreamt of hooking your legs over my shoulders and thrusting into you, rubbing you, rubbing myself against that marvelously furry nest of carpet. All night. And not stopping for daybreak, no sir. The servants would have to go about their business as I swallowed you and frigged you and sod you. Scratching the itch, scratching the itch, until we were both so full of blood, we burst._

_Rug sounds lovely. Your beloved._

“There,” I said with a satisfied huff and took it to be posted.

I received a reply in the form of a telegram, handed to me just as Mrs. Hudson and I were preparing to disembark for a day excursion on an island of some historical and archeological note.

**LIKE AARON, MY ROD IS OUTSTRETCHED AND I AM UN-DONNE. STOP.**

At my snort, Mrs. Hudson asked, “What’s Mr. Holmes up to now?”

“Puns. Mixing, metaphors, genres, time periods. He’s also commissioned a rug.”

She looked at me with horror and I daresay was not wholly aware of her hand floating to her neck and her nails commencing to scratch.


	4. Flies

“Odd that an apology for,” she paused and glanced at the cobalt sea, “a plague of flies should have you so pensive, Doctor.”

“Mrs. Hudson, you astound me!”

She laughed. “I see why he likes it. Oh, yes.”

We were breakfasting _al fresco_ at a table for two. I retrieved the postcard from my inside jacket pocket and placed it between us.

She looked at the drawing on the card, a coloured pencil sketch of a dozing bee.

It was, in a word, adorable.

“Mister Holmes is not the only resident of 221 Baker Street who is able to observe,” she said. “Although he is the only one with an unfortunate penchant for experimentation.” She pronounced the last word with decided disgust and wrinkled her entire countenance.

“But,” her face smoothed, “what has he promised? To never, ever leave a bag of severed thumbs near an open window on a day that turns unusually warm? One can hardly believe that such a vow would be necessary, but…”

She buried the rest of her thought in a long sip of a colourful, sweet cocktail they were calling ‘Boatman’s Punch.’

“The flies were mercifully short in their residence,” I reminded her.

“True, but whereas the lice found a comfortable home in your hair, as I recall they were especially fond of your _facial_ hair, Doctor,” I winced and touched my moustache, yet not returned to his full glory, “the flies seemed to prefer my coiffure.”

I grimaced in sympathy, then took a deep breath and asked, apropos of nothing,

“Have you any thoughts of retirement, Mrs. Hudson?”

“You don’t expect me to, what do the Americans say, die in the saddle?”

“No, no. Just have you any thoughts when? Or where?”

“The island that we visited the other day looked lovely.”

“Indeed, it did. I only ask because Mister Holmes just informed me that he has invested in a retirement home in Sussex. Southern slope of the downs. Chalk cliffs. Excellent view of the channel. He would, uh,” I faltered, “he would like me to join him there, continue our cohabitation when he retires.”

“And you don’t like Sussex?”

“I have no opinion of Sussex whatsoever, but, and you may not believe me, but in truth thoughts of retirement simply hadn’t occurred to me. My mind never wanders that far. And I am surprised, shocked truthfully, that Mister Holmes _has_ thought about it and that, well, he has definite ideas on the subject, namely that he would like for us to retire together in Sussex. The whole scheme has me a bit, well, flummoxed.” I stared at my eggs and bacon as if they had the answer to the question I’d not posed.

“Doctor Watson.”

“Yes?” I said, startled once more, this time at her admonishing tone.

She smiled. “He’s right: you see but you don’t observe.”

I huffed and opened my mouth to protest, but she continued.

“Of course, he wants you by his side,” she said gently, then her tone hardened, “but he’s quite mistaken if he thinks I am going to be running your household—or anywhere near the cursed spot where he rests his head!”

“He wants to keep bees,” I said, attempting to distract her from rising anger.

It worked.

She fell silent, then tilted her head as if to consider the sea once more. “Bees are industrious creatures. Interesting, too, I imagine, to a natural philosopher like Mister Holmes. And for the most part, unless you disturb them, they rarely disturb you, not like, say, flies, which swarm whether you are in their way or not. Well, it is the hour for the ladies’ stroll.”

“Enjoy. I’ll finish my tea.”

“A word of advice, Doctor?”

“Please.”

“Don’t wait too long in your reply or he shall think your heart hardened like Pharoah’s.” She punctuated her thought with a coquettish wink.

“Why, Mrs. Hudson, are you softening?”

“No, I’m self-serving. The sooner that you two are packed off to the country, the sooner I can head off to my Mediterranean paradise, far away from, well,” she said with a wave of the hand at her fly-free coiffure, “you know.”

Yes, I did know.

I spent most of the day on a deck chair, feigning interest in Mister Clark Russell’s excellent sea story, but my mind was on the southern slope of the downs.

And with every passing hour, my discomfort faded and was replaced by a much warmer sentiment.

_My dearest,_

_Yes, I will join you in Sussex, but let us go sooner rather than later, before age weakens and withers my body more than it already has. The freedom! Can you imagine? Of course, you can. You have. To hold hands in plain air. To kiss across the breakfast table without a glance at the door or window. You call it a ‘cottage’ but if it does not afford space for a frigging nook, that is a corner where I may open your trousers, free your cock, and stroke you to crisis, well, we must make certain the necessary renovations are underway. And a second corner with cushions near for falling to my knees while you lean back against the wall and takes you pleasure like a very good boy. Yes, keep your bees. I’ll have a garden. Flowers or vegetables. And I shall lay you down right there, my knees digging into the earth, your face pressed hard to the soil as well, with July’s sun on our backs—or August’s caressing moonlight—and the buzz and the fragrance of fecund summer all about us, in heat, in rut, being mounted, mounting…_

Here I had to halt and move to the edge of the bed and take myself in hand, imagining my fist was his tight hole stretched ‘round my shaft and imagining my ragged breath were the delightful sounds he would make as he was ridden so very, very roughshod. Christ, I’d have him on every surface possible and probably a few that were only highly improbable.

Indoors, out of doors, against doors.

I spent myself in a flannel, took several deep breaths, cleaned the mess, then returned to the card, which bore a picturesque view of Mrs. Hudson’s retirement isle.

_But no body parts!_

I underscored the last three words.

 _I shudder at the interest from many-legged beasts—and the rebuke from two-legged ones—we would suffer in the countryside!_ _Your beloved._

The reply was a postcard, not a telegram, of the three words and the picture was of with chalk cliffs and, indeed, an excellent view of the Channel.

**I AM CORRUPTED.**


	5. Diseased Livestock

“He’s trying to make amends, Mrs. Hudson.”

She harrumphed and beckoned the waitstaff to refill her glass of Sunrise-at-Sea cordial.

“I respect your skepticism, but he has invested in an entire kitchen’s worth of new pots and pans.”

“Really?” she said and snatched the postcard from my hand, just as I was drawing out of my pocket. “Oh, my goodness!” she exclaimed with a smile as she stared at the picture, a commercial advertisement for crockery and cooking utensils. Then her face re-hardened and she dropped the card on the table and harrumphed.

“Is he using them now?” she queried.

“No. He says they remain in boxes until we return.”

She exhaled and glared at the sea. “What good is a thoroughbred if there are no stable-hands, Doctor Watson?”

“He has also convinced Bessie to return.”

She turned back towards me, and her jaw dropped for a moment. Then her lips curled in a smirk. “He is a sly one. I wouldn’t have thought she’d change her mind for a king’s ransom. Oh, Mister Holmes.”

Her third harrumph was more of a sigh.

“I am sorry as well for the role I played in the damage of the pots, Mrs. Hudson. After Bessie quit, I know it was impossible to find anyone to help at any wage. Our intentions were noble. Mister Holmes and I wanted to relieve some of your housework burden, but, of course, two bachelors in the kitchen is not perhaps wisest placement for the safety and integrity of the items thereof. But I think you’ll find his attitude changed, enlightened, even, a bit more like that of a pupil eager to be instructed. He pointed out to me, and he’s quite right, that if we are to retire to the Sussex cottage together, we will need to do more for ourselves. We will need to learn from you—and Bessie, of course—how to manage and maintain a household. I learned a bit as a soldier, but of course, my soldiering days were brief and quite a long time ago.”

I wasn’t prepared for her cackle or its volume. In fact, I don’t know if I’ve ever heard a woman, any woman, make such a raucous noise at that hour of the morning. The question of just how many Sunrise-at-Sea cordials she’d consumed prior to my arrival at the breakfast table died on my lips.

She laughed and laughed until she was forced to dab the corner of her eyes with a napkin. “Tell Mister Holmes, I shall embroider for him the sweetest pinny, white with little bees, as a retirement gift. Oh, ho! You and he maintaining a household! Ha, ha! You and he cooking, cleaning! Oh, ho! Laundry! Oh, dear me, laundry! Goodness, I do believe it’s time for the ladies’ stroll. Thank you, Doctor, for the amusement you’ve brought into my life. Good morning to you.”

“Good morning, Mrs. Hudson. Here may I—?”

“Quite all right. That’s why there are railings everywhere.”

_My dearest,_

_Mrs. Hudson mostly has greeted your campaign with disdain, but today she showed genuine appreciation at the purchase of new pots and pans and the prospect of Bessie’s return. Well done on both counts. She also mentioned, and this may have been an amusement on her part, gifting you with a white pinny, embroidered with bees, no less, for your retirement. I confess to have taken my prick in hand twice today at the thought of you in the garment, and nothing more, in our Sussex cottage. You sit prettily in my lap, impaled on my erect cock, wriggling as I thrust up into your tight heat. You mewl as I tease your nipples with spit-wet fingers, pinching them hard to make you squeak. Perhaps we should incentivise the more tedious aspects of housework with the prize of such sessions. You whimper beautifully; the pinny tenting as your cock stiffens. Your hands, of course, are tied behind your back so that you do not touch yourself. My hands fall from your abused buds to your thighs. I grip them and yank you impossibly closer. I want to be deeper, deeper, and even deeper still inside you. You bounce deliciously and even hiccup deliciously as you plead for more. I give you more. I give you all of me._

_Your beloved._

My reply was not a telegram, but another postcard, which arrived just as everyone was preparing for the ship’s arrival in Egypt.

“Doctor Watson, you have a very amusing correspondent,” said the steward. The picture was quite a comical caricature of a donkey and the encrypted message read:

**A VERY GRIEVOUS MURRAIN UPON MY ASSES THAT YOU ARE SO FAR AWAY, MY BELOVED.**

I laughed and tucked the postcard amongst my shirts and other clothes in the wardrobe trunk.


	6. Boils

The next postcard reached me at the hotel in Alexandria. It was of the Palace of Westminster. Unlike some of its predecessors, however, I did not breathe a word of its contents to my traveling companion for reasons that will become readily evident.

_My dear Watson,_

_My intentions were noble, you’ll allow. After our failed efforts to aide Mrs. Hudson in the kitchen, we were banished to household cleaning. But how tedious the beating of rugs and turning of beds! My mind sought more interesting avenues and found one in the silver polish. I knew I could craft one which would surpass the commercial paste that Mrs. Hudson favoured with respect to brilliance-rendering. And I was correct, wasn’t I? I mean, did you ever see a spoon gleam so? Never, I’ll wager. How was I to know that my polish would cause her to break out in boils? I used gloves in its preparation, and you, of course, did not touch the utensils. I am sorry. I experimented upon the silver but could find no way to reverse its properties, so I returned it to its case, which I sealed and labeled and stored it in the lumber room. And there is sits like a cursed relic in a king’s tomb, waiting for the greedy, ignorant soul that will not heed its warning. I have replaced the silver, of course; it will be part of the many bundles that greet Mrs. Hudson upon her return. Please say nothing of the matter until then. I hope you are enjoying yourself. I miss you. Your beloved._

“That must’ve cost a fortune, Holmes,” I mused before reaching for a postcard. Upon arrival, I’d bought a goodly assortment of cards and was, one-by-one, visiting the sites featured.

But this card was an artist’s vision of the lost Alexandrian library. The dancing ants now came easy to me, and I had only to glance once or twice at the key to encrypt my reply.

_My dear,_

_At your touch, I am transformed. I swell, filling with desire and the corpses of all the banal contemplations and considerations that distracted me before you. My lusts cluster forming a gem more precious than a pebble of blue carbon lodged in a goose’s crop._

_Lust is everywhere, like dust in the air, vapour in the ether, but between us, it takes on a singular quality. Of course, all lovers think thusly. All lovers think theirs one for the ages. All lovers think that, like Capulets and Montagues, people will be writing about them for centuries._

_But ours is, is it not?_

_And I want your love. I want your touch. And not just that of your clever hand, but your soft lips and impish mind and your glorious cock. Your touch makes me tender. Your touch makes me warm. Your touch makes me spread my legs and lift my hips in invitation. You touch makes me reveal and revel in my own weakness._

_I am feverish, fatigued, laid low from wanting and wanting and not having. See this point at the tip of this shaft? see how ready it is to drain, to discharge like a loaded weapon still unfired as the curtain lifts on the third act of a Russian play?_

_I’m ready._

_Lance me, my beloved._

* * *

“The fountain at Kensington Gardens,” I observed with a chuckle, which became a full-bodied laugh when I read the reply on the other side of the postcard.

**I’M SPRINKLING UP TOWARDS HEAVEN.**

“I’m quite certain that is not what Moses did,” I said, adding the card to my growing collection.


	7. Hail

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holmes and Watson make references to the King James Version of Exodus 9:13-31.

_"I rise up early in the morning, and stand before an empty armchair, and say, “Let my Watson return, that we may serve each other and together serve justice. For I will at this time spare_ _all my plagues upon his heart, and upon our landlady, and upon her servants; that he mayest know that_ _there is_ _none like him in all the earth.”_

_I caused it to rain a very grievous hail, such as hath not been inside an edifice since the foundation thereof. There was a hail in all the land of Baker Street, upon my Watson, and upon my landlady, and upon every furnishing of the rooms, throughout 221B._

_So there was hail, and fire mingled with the hail, once the lamps and gaslights were struck, very grievous._ _And the hail smote throughout all the land of 221B, all that_ _was_ _sofa and breakfast table and desk, both landlady and Watson; and the hail smote every curtain of the window, and singed every cushion of the sitting room._

_I confess that my Watson is righteous, and I and my crime-scene-replication ways are, indeed, wicked._

_Your beloved._

_P.S. I’ve replaced the curtains. The charred furniture is being replaced or reupholstered under the advisement of Mrs. Turner, with whom I’ve resumed acquaintanceship after profuse apologies and no little shrewd bartering._

I studied the picture, a commercial advertisement for a crafter of umbrellas, then tucked the card away just as the porter knocked.

* * *

“I think an early dinner in Cairo might be more comfortable than a late breakfast here, Mrs. Hudson.”

“I quite agree, Doctor. I’ve been told the journey will be a ‘rough one.’ Of course, those who consider it so, may not have had the benefit of an indoor fire-and-hailstorm as reference for ‘rough.’”

“Speaking of which—“

“I’ve a letter from Marie. Mister Holmes took those twin nephews of hers, you know, the ones upon whom she dotes, the ones that,” she made two vague gestures, which could have meant anything from the nephews suffered from penchants for drink to they bore prehensile tails, “under his wings and has got them sorted. What a charmer! And there’s no one else I’d trust to select fabrics for the rooms, but dear Marie. Certainly not him!”

“They should look very nice.”

“Yes,” she was forced to agree as I helped her into the waiting vehicle.

The journey itself was too loud and dusty and bumpy for much conversation. I studied the changing landscape out the window and thought of hail. I thought of the flax and the barley smitten, the barley in the ear, and the flax bolled. And I thought, of course, of Mister Sherlock Holmes.

And as soon as we reached the hotel in Cairo and were settled in our rooms, I took up my pen.

_Dear Holmes,_

_Apologise to Mrs. Hudson for the hail, but not to me. Much was singed and much requires replacing, but I can be forgiven for thinking your otherworldly when you conjure storms with your bare hands indoors. Yes, I realise there were engine-fed fans and water and ice and a great number of elements that I shall never fully comprehend, but whom but a god, or an emissary of the God if you’d prefer I’d not blaspheme, can make weather thusly? And the Addleton family might never have got a full explanation of the tragedy which befell them and the truth surrounding the singular contents of the ancient British barrow might never have been known if it weren’t for your experiment. If you have not done so, you should visit your brother and explain your experiment to him. Perhaps there is some use that our government can make of what you were able to accomplish. Or the scientific community. Please write a monograph. Or several. The world should benefit from it, even if our cushion and curtains didn’t. You are not wicked, my knight, not in the sense that you claim. Careless, perhaps. There might be better places to conduct such investigations than rooms in central London. Nevertheless, you’re a wonder, and I’m very proud to call you my beloved._

My reply? A telegram.

**NONE IN ALL THE EARTH. STOP.**

 

 


	8. Locusts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter.

_Locusts._

_I can make nothing soft of locusts._

_They are of ancient curses. They inspire nightmares in a soldier who thought himself too worn for such things._

_Yes, the zebra skin and the lice should have taught you caution in opening parcels from abroad. And neither Mrs. Hudson nor I were in the room when the palimpsests were delivered. Or should I say, when the crate with the palimpsest-gorged locusts were delivered._

_They devoured everything left unscorched by the hail-fire. They might have consumed our whole library if we hadn’t opened the windows and shooed them out._

_Our books were spared, but the edibles of the rest of the street were not._

_And, of course, the violence that we used in ridding the rooms of the last of them led to other complications, but that’s for another day, another card._

_So, yes, the refurbishing of 221B is a noble endeavour in many respects. It’s wonderful to learn of the progress than you and Mrs. Turner are making. I applaud each and every one of your efforts._

_Tomorrow Mrs. Hudson and I will be visiting the famous pyramids as seen on the opposite side of this card, then we are scheduled to make the trek to the Red Sea. I may be unreachable for some days._

_I’m tired, but remain your beloved._

I was tired. Tired of trunks and hotel restaurants and boarding and disembarking. I was tired of the Sisyphean task of keeping oneself in a state of gentlemanly presentable-ness in a land crafted primarily of dust and wind.

I was even tired, though I kept this particular sentiment carefully hidden from my traveling companion, of gin. And whist. And especially of small talk.

I was homesick. Holmes-sick.

Ah well, the pyramids were certain to impress.

I extinguished the light.


	9. Three Days of Darkness

The penultimate plague of Baker Street had been three days in darkness. I’d spent almost twice as many days in motion, on an assortment of transports, without receiving or penning a single postcard. Trite, but I’d not realised how much I’d looked forward to the back and forth of communication with Holmes until it ceased.

The pyramids were, of course, lovely distractions, inspiring and humbling and so many more descriptors, and now Mrs. Hudson and I were gazing at the Red Sea.

Amazing.

And not just the view of the water.

With Holmes, the sensation of playing a supporting role in someone else’s titular drama is an ever familiar, one. I felt that way now as I looked at Mrs. Hudson. She was gazing at the water, holding onto the rail, the wind buffeting her hair and hat, cutting such an iconic figure that English failed.

“You are a _femme formidable_ , Mrs. Hudson,” I said.

She smiled. “Jacques says that, too, and he doesn’t even know about the plagues. Yet.”

“Jacques?”

“The steward has a Christian name, Doctor Watson,” she admonished.

“The steward? Oh, you mean the little fellow from the boat! Oh, really?!”

Her gaze hardened to a stare, which quickly reduced me to a quarter of my years and threw me back in short trousers.

“Oh, yes, and he is, uh, quite attentive, is he?” I said weakly.

She kept staring. “Yes.”

“Oh, well, that’s jolly good. Splendid,” I said.

She drew her gaze back to the water and said, “Really, Doctor, one wonder how you managed across three whole continents.”

“I wonder that myself,” I said with a wide grin, which she noted and I noted that she noted and that she had her answer right there in the noting.

Unobservant, not stupid.

“Yes, yes. I see,” she murmured.

We stood side by side in silence for some time, then, also not unlike Holmes, she put words to my very thought,

“This is journey’s end.”

I nodded.

“It’s been marvelous, but home calls,” she continued. “The last missive I received from Mister Holmes said that the gas and our credit amongst the neighbourhood merchants have both been fully restored. That is, for me, enough.”

“Good,” I said. “You know, it is difficult to fathom how swatting—stabbing at, more precisely—locusts could lead to puncturing so critical pipe, the destruction of which resulted in darkness for not just one residence, but the entire street!”

She shook her head slowly. “And because of their anger about the locusts, none of the shops nearby would sell us—you, me, Mister Holmes—anything. Inspector Lestrade was kind enough to provide us with some candles and oil when our supplies dwindled. There were, of course, temporary measures, but who knew when the full repairs would finally include 221? Ah, well. All’s well that ends well, I suppose.”

I sighed. “And it has been a wonderful voyage, Mrs. Hudson. I’ve enjoyed your company immensely.”

“And I yours, Doctor.”

I put my hand on hers and squeezed it, gave her a nod and headed back to the group.

On my way, I crossed paths with Jacques with a postcard in hand.

“For me?” I asked, reaching for the card. “But I thought there wasn’t any mail.”

He shook his head and held the card tightly before his fingers. “I am afraid that you have not received any post, Doctor. This is for Madame Hudson.”

“Oh.”

I listened, but was soon out of earshot.

_“Excuse me, Madame, another postcard.” “Oh, thank you.”_

_“Forgive me, Madame, but our guests usually send more postcards than they receive. Someone misses you terribly.”_

The steward’s final words echoed in my thoughts on the return to Cairo.

_Someone misses you terribly._

Yes, yes, I did.

When we reached Cairo, I immediately sent both a postcard of the Red Sea. The message was written in my own hand, very clear and legible to all that might glance at it.

_On our way home. Watson_

I followed it with an identical telegram.

Any nagging disappointment at Holmes’s lack of correspondence was soon overwhelmed by my anticipation about the journey home. The night before we boarded the return vessel, I took up my pen and a sheet of hotel stationery out of sheer impatience.

_I am a fool, darling._

_I wasted our three days in darkness taking refuge in my club, cursing your name. Anger blinded me to possibility._

_Hidden by shadows, I could’ve kissed you for a whole day. Kissed your hair and your skin, your curves and your angles. Your wetness, your hardness._

_I must pause my words to take my prick in hand, my love, as the image is mercilessly compelling._

_Forgive the rough hand, love, I’m keeping myself on the edge purposefully, that you feel the strain in my words._

_Mercilessly devouring you from tip to tip. That would be the first day._

_The second day, I would touch you for a whole day, caresses sweet and rough and claiming and gentle. Pinches, scratches, rubs, strokes. Reading every quiver of skin and roll of muscle. Reading brush of eyelash, every curl of dark lock._

_Knowing without sight. Knowing by touch alone_

_By the third day, I’d be mad with mounting you. When the filthy stench of the sheets finally repulses me, we move to the wall and the chair and desk and the floor, wherever I could sink my prick into your needy hole, fill you and pump myself to spending. I’d maul you, without remorse and without relent, for a day. I am a beast, my beloved, but your beast._

_What a shameless wanton I am!_

_I write of your need, my darling, but tonight, with my wicked reverie of how we might spend our three days in darkness running through my mind, mine was so great that I indulged myself. I stripped from the waist down, slicked both hands, cupped and played with my own bollocks, like you do so well, my beloved, and oh God, when you put them in your mouth, when you suckle them so sweetly!_

_But, as is my weakness, I digress._

_I sank two fingers into my hole, imagining at the end of our third day, you throwing me upon the reeking bed, repaying me for every mounting in one, splitting me open with that long, sinisterly bent prick. I moaned what would’ve been a long, loud, utterly telling noise, if I hadn’t pressed my mouth into the bedding to muffle it. ‘Twas a depraved spectacle, me fucking myself, but thinking only of you, your claiming me, riding me for what seemed a blessed eternity and me begging for, nay, weeping for more, for deeper, for harder._

_For you._

_Needless to say, I made a foul mess of myself and the bed. I fear that both are beyond redemption, but I am looking so forward to home and being again at your side, my beloved._

In the morning, I was readying my trunks for transfer to the boat when there was a knock at the door.

“Good morning, Doctor Watson. I am afraid there’s a delay. The ship must remain in port for three days.”

“Three days!” I cried. “Damn it!”

“The hotel will extend your stay, naturally, or perhaps you’d prefer to take a short journey up the Nile?”

“Oh, I don’t know. I suppose I’d have to consult with Mrs. Hudson. How’s she taking the news?”

“As you are. Shall I add a second pitcher of Nefertiti’s Lassi to the breakfast order?”

“No,” I said, frowning. “But tell her I shall join her shortly and if you’d be so kind as to post this letter.”

“Very well.”

I sighed and looked about the room until my eyes rested on Clark Russell’s story.

“At least I have a good book!”


	10. The First Piece of Toast Burnt & the End.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who's taken this journey with me. I hope you've enjoyed it.

“Well, I _had_ a good book,” I grumbled, three days later. “Now I could kill Holmes! Well, not really, of course, I’d be found out. Or perhaps not if he wasn’t about to investigate, but never mind. This is as maddening as, well, the first slice of one’s toast always being burnt!”

I shoved Clark Russell’s book into my satchel and followed my trunks out the door, continuing my lament under my breath.

“It’s very well for Holmes to hide the key to the dancing ants code in my book, clever of him, I’ll admit, but he removed a most critical page!”

I’d made considerable headway in my story in the three days that Mrs. Hudson and I waited for our ship to be seaworthy, but now my progress was halted. I’d come to page 273. The next page was the dancing ants.

I dared not skip the page, I didn’t want to spoil the surprise, but I’d reached the point where the rescue of the shipwrecked young girl and her father by the dubious crew was hanging in the balance.

And I wanted to know. And I could not know because of Sherlock Holmes!

I kept my pique to myself, but Mrs. Hudson is a sensitive woman, and after we boarded the ship but before we separated to settle ourselves into our respective cabins, she expressed her own vexation on a different subject matter,

“But how did he manage the toast? Every first slice burnt. How, Doctor Watson?”

“I do not know,” I answered honestly.

* * *

I exhaled noisily and shook my head as I removed the book from the satchel and placed it by the head of the bed. Then there was a bell and a knock and a garbled voice.

“Post?”

“Yes, one moment, please!” I cried.

I snatched up a postcard and scribbled the Baker Street address and my command.

_LET MY PAGE 274 GO!_

My eyes were fixed on my scrawl as I made my way to the door and opened it.

Suddenly, I felt very foolish.

“Uh, I’m sorry.” I tore up the postcard. “I don’t have anything after all.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the envelope; its blue contrasting sharply against the white uniform of the steward.

“For you, _Docteur_.”

I opened it at once. And blinked.

It was a page of a book. My book.

“Page 274,” I exclaimed, then finally looked up at the steward.

He’d grown a foot taller and was now sporting a pair of most handsome and mischievously sparkling grey eyes.

“Holmes, you blighter!”

He grinned.

“Post?”

“I certainly have a few things I wish to convey,” I said. “Won’t you step inside?”

* * *

Door locked, window covered, I threw him against the wall and covered his face with kisses like the welcoming beast-companion that I am. And he smiled and laughed and returned fire, showering me with ridiculous endearments like the doting romantic master that he is.

“I suppose an east wind brought you,” I said, when we paused for breath.

“Like the locusts? Yes, something like that. Sorry about the ship’s delay. I had some business in Cairo.”

“The delay was your doing? Of course, it was.”

“I rarely work on commission, but,” he plucked something from his trouser pocket, “this is the Eye of Bastet.”

It was a yellow stone, bright and shining, but with an oval obsidian centre, which looked very much like a pupil of a feline goddess.

“Holmes,” I breathed. I stopped rubbing myself against him and fumbling with his uniform. “I suppose it’s famous and priceless and cursed.”

“Naturally, and its recovery’s worth a genuine fortune. Making amends has not been without its costs.”

The last part he said very gently, but I still felt the guilt like a jezail bullet.

“Christ, Holmes.”

“And here I thought we were solidly in the Old Testament, my dear man,” he teased. His eyes pleaded with me to drop the subject of finances, so I did and said,

“You feel so damned good.” I put my cheek to his chest and resuming my lower half’s rutting.

He sank his finger into my buttocks and guided my efforts. “As do you. Even better than your naughty cards. And there, I sincerely believe that you missed your calling as an author of pornographic prose, my dear man.”

“Another lifetime. Holmes?”

I stopped and looked towards the door and the world outside it.

He kissed the side of my head and whispered, “I believe any noise we make will be masked by the commotion of the ship’s departure.”

I raised an eyebrow. “You’re staying?”

“Absolutely—if you’re going.”

“I want to go to bed and I want to go home, in that order.”

“Let’s let the mighty strong west wind take us away.”

* * *

I was where I wanted to be: in his arms, sated, if for the moment.

“Am I forgiven, Watson, for the plagues?”

I opened my eyes and huffed. “Of course. Weeks ago.”

His face softened.

“Good Lord, Holmes. Did you doubt?”

He shrugged and kissed my shoulder.

“After all the postcards? After the many times you’ve apologised? After all the work that you’ve done to get things back to a semblance of what they once were? Yes, you’re forgiven. Some of it wasn’t your fault. Some of it was your fault. Some no one could’ve predicted, even you. Some you should have predicted. Yes, for one and all of it, you’re forgiven. I love you, you beast,” I said, nuzzling him affectionately. “But…”

I felt him tense.

“But what?”

“The toast,” I said. “I’m just curious. How did you manage to get the toasting fork to burn only the first slice?”

He laughed. “It wasn’t the fork, my dear man. It was the bread.”

“The bread?”

“If you and Mrs. Hudson hadn’t fled, I would’ve explained that I’d been experimenting with the two loaves of bread that Inspector Hopkins had given us. They were already sliced and with some surgical instruments I managed to remove the interior portion of every fifth slice. Very deftly done so that Mrs. Hudson wasn’t the wiser.”

“But why?”

“Because you like your toast very crispy.”

There was no guile in his grey eyes.

“Oh, Holmes,” I sighed.

“But I realised I’d removed too much when I saw they’d been reduced to bits of carbon instantly. Mrs. Hudson sent up the alarm. You rushed to her aid, and you two had come to the most extraordinary conclusion, contacted a travel bureau, and begun filling your trunks before I’d even woke!”

I buried my face in the side of his neck. “I’m so sorry,” I mumbled. “You’ve done so much. How can I make amends?”

“I think your correspondence offered an imaginative assortment of possibilities. I intercepted the most recent letter you posted from the hotel in Cairo. It was intriguing, to say the least.”

“Like it?” I whispered.                                                                                                        

“Very much.”

He snaked one hand, then another between my folded legs. He fondled my bollocks and teased my rim.

“Like this?” he teased.

“Oh, God. More, more.”

We kissed softly again and again as his finger delved deeper inside me.

I rolled on my side. He followed. We kissed some more.

“Your fingers are longer,” I said. “Exquisite for this purpose.”

“And according to a well-documented source, they are quite skilled in manipulating fragile instruments.”

“Oh, God, I’m yours,” I moaned as he squeezed my bollocks and pushed back against his finger, impaling himself more. “No matter what comes, Holmes. No matter the distance nor the anger nor the magnificent oddities that befall us.”

“And I’m yours. I may never change my ways entirely, but I will always be sorry for having hurt you, intentionally or not. And I will always apologise. And tried to make it better. And Watson?” His fingers were stretching me, carefully, deftly. “May I fuck you? I want so very desperately to do so.”

“Yes, yes,” I said, rolling forward and feeling a rush of selfish glee at the rawness in his voice.

He mounted me and rode me and spent himself so deep inside me that before I could censor myself an inane thought tumbled from my lips.

“I feel bred,” I confessed, then my face felt hot and I hid it in the bedding.

Holmes bit at my neck. “Come, return the favour, my stud.”

I did, of course.

And perhaps it was the long absence and my body being so overjoyed at his nearness, at the heady effects of his texture and scent, that led me to experience an almost youthful vigour that was, alas, impermanent, but note-worthy, for Holmes himself noted it aloud.

“Christ, Watson,” he sputtered after I’d come down his throat and unbelievably short time after filling his arse. “You are—“

“Very happy to see you, my love,” I said, brushing his cheek with my thumb.

“Evidently,” he said, taking the handkerchief offered and dabbing his mouth. I reached for him and we settled back together on the bed, legs and arms entangled.

I was relieved when Mrs. Hudson sent word that she would dine in her room that evening. I thought it would be much better to make Holmes’s presence known in the morning, with a beautiful breakfast complete with a refreshing beverage called Siren’s Song, in the foreground and the beautiful coast of Greece in the background.

We dozed, and when I woke, I immediately turned in Holmes’s arms and wiggled my arse. Holmes mumbled something, bit my neck, and reached for the slick beside the bed. In a few moments, I felt my leg being lifted and a cockhead probing my entrance.

As Holmes pressed into me, I stared at his steward’s uniform, hanging on a hook on the wall. The stretching of my arse by Holmes’s prick was delightful as was his ragged breath in my ear, but my mind barely registered the two. I was thinking of something else entire.

I was thinking of _The Wreck of the Grosvenor_.

And of cursed gems.

And of plagues.

“Holmes?”

“Hmm?”

“Sea voyage.”

“Hmm.”

“In my stories, your stories, our stories, well, sea voyages never end well, do they? For villains or accomplices or even victims. And there are all those tales, Clark Russell’s and at least three of your unpublished cases, of shipwrecks.”

“True enough.” He kissed my earlobe.

“And you are in possession of a cursed gem, which also, in my recollection, never ends well.”

“Also true.” He stilled when his cock was fully sheathed. “At least for villains, but we are no villains, Watson.”

“Well, then there’s the fact that the whole point of this journey was a flight from plagues.”

Holmes was silent for a long moment, then groaned. “Train from Athens?”

“Oh, God, yes. We can abandon ship in the morning.”

He began to thrust. “We’ll tell Mrs. Hudson at breakfast; she can decide for herself whether to join us or not.”

“Holmes?”

“First class sleeping compartment to ourselves.”

“Oh, God, yes.”

“Night train. Many,” he bit my neck, “delicious possibilities. But I think I shall be Monsieur Pharaoh and you can be my gentleman’s gentleman, Moses.”

I giggled and my whole body shook from my own mirth and Holmes’s pumping.

He bent and whispered in the nape of my neck. “I love you, Watson. And I will not l let you go.”

“Nor I you, Holmes. Nor I you.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!


End file.
